


Looking for a Sign

by takemetofantasyland



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Do i just love dmitry as a musician? Yes, F/M, Trope- kindred spirits, once inspired au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26530744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takemetofantasyland/pseuds/takemetofantasyland
Summary: Dmitry is a broken hearted singer songwriter about to give up on his dream of becoming a musician. One night after his set, he meets a young woman who falls in love with his music. She strikes a deal with him if he can help her, she’ll help him with recording an album.His music needed one thing—her.A Once inspired au
Relationships: Dimitri | Dmitry/Anya | Anastasia Romanov (Anastasia 1997 & Broadway)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 8





	Looking for a Sign

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Just a quick note before we begin: this au will not be a carbon copy of the musical/movie. Elements from Once have been hand picked, but the goal is to blend it with dimya to make a more robust (and hopefully happier) story. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

The moon hung over the city as nightlife buzzed and the bars and streets were very much alive and well, despite the late hour. At a bar in the Village, livened by the gentle strum of a guitar and the hum of conversation, casual diners cleared out for the night. Only regulars who were too intoxicated to call cabs remained. 

Dmitry took a sip from his water glass as he paused to catch his breath and shake his hands out. He was rolling off the high of his rush hour set, filled with covers of popular songs and laced with a few of his originals. The owner didn’t mind a couple as long as he kept a mellow guitar strum to keep the mood. 

He ran his fingers through his hair to brush it back and out of his eyes. A local he often spotted in his audience quipped a quick remark to him and his lip curled into a smile. He looked out into the bar and made eye contact as a soft laugh escaped his lips and he shook his head. 

His second set for the night was all his own original songs. Those who frequented the bar at these hours were familiar with his second set, and he knew they wouldn’t walk out on him. Usually it was either because they were too drunk, or didn’t care enough about him to get up and leave, but granted, he appreciated them staying all the same. 

It was an unspoken relationship between him and the regular bar patrons—they wouldn’t walk out on each other. He was stuck on a girl he once loved, and they were stuck with an alcohol addiction. Each was lonely in its own way.

Dmitry pulled his guitar strap over his head and gave it a soft strum to check the tune. He adjusted the mic height to match his stance. After he cleared his throat, he began to strum and sing a melancholic song he wrote about the girl he loved and lost. 

It was one of his older songs that seemed to be a crowd favorite. In a way, he had felt like he had reclaimed it himself, connecting with others over a heartbreak he thought would never heal. They didn’t know it, but this was the first one he wrote after the breakup. All the same, he bared his heart to his audience when he was on stage. 

He would never say it out loud, but this set was freeing. The bar owner was an old friend and started letting him play evenings and nights as a favor. Dmitry didn’t mind the space for exposure but perhaps the real favor was allowing himself the space to express his unrequited feelings to a room of a dozen strangers. He could close his eyes and sing like no one was watching. It was cathartic. 

Dmitry ran through his set, baring everything from broken-hearted anger to soft-spoken resilience on stage. 

As he came to the end of his set, he strummed through his last song. It was one of his more recent ones, and close to his heart. His fingers plucked at the strings on his guitar, and he looked up for a moment out the window of the bar. He caught the gaze of a woman passing by. She paused for a moment as she looked back at him.

She slowed her stride for just a moment, listening to him play as she looked in the window. Suddenly, she turned on her heel and stepped into the bar. 

Dmitry strummed a riff on his guitar and finished his last song. He mumbled a thank you into the microphone. He pulled his guitar strap over his head and set it aside. 

A few patrons gave him a lazy applause and he nodded with appreciation. He took a drink of water and used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat beading on his forehead.

The woman he caught in the window walked across the bar to the stage. He grabbed his guitar and kneeled down to settle his guitar into its case. He could feel a pair of eyes on him and turned over his shoulder to find the woman staring at him. 

She was small and her wavy, straw colored hair had to amount to about a third of her body. Her feet were firmly planted on the floor and her blue eyes were dazzled in the low light of the bar. 

“Did you write that?” She asked as she watched him exhale and close the lid to the case. 

Dmitry snapped the clasps tight. “Write what?” He asked as he turned to look at her.

“That song you were just playing.” 

“Yeah,” Dmitry replied. “I wrote all the songs I sing for this set.”

He was perplexed by her. She certainly didn’t match the usual clientele of this bar, and she was quite assertive for having a persona that was so demure. 

Most of the time when people questioned his songwriting he was prepared for them to tell him you could tell it was scratched out by a boy in his bedroom with a guitar and a head full of dreams. 

“It was good,” she affirmed. 

Dmitry stared at her for a moment as if he had misheard her. He hadn’t realized his mouth had gaped as he looked at her and he snapped it shut. 

She was odd in a way he couldn’t quite place. He didn’t know if it was the oversized men’s coat she was wearing or the brightly colored tights under her otherwise plain outfit. “Thanks,” he sighed with a soft smile. “I wish more people felt the same way.”

“People seem to listen to you here,” she suggested as she tucked her hands in her pockets and looked around the bar. “I don’t see anyone getting up and walking away.”

“These are all regulars,” he laughed. “The rest have already left for the night.”

She was persistent, and he couldn’t blame her. He rose to his feet. “I think I might be coming up on my last time, though,” he sighed. “Eventually you have to know when it’s just not for you, right?” 

The bar was somber and even the patrons who stuck around for his set were starting to leave. The bartender had called last call and was wiping down the bar. Dmitry straightened out and fixed the roll in his sleeve.

“Do you play here every night?” The woman asked as she gestured to the stage.

“Yeah,” he nodded as his hand rubbed the back of his neck. 

She turned and looked at the stage and then back at him, “Why?” 

He paused, taken aback by the question. His first instinct was to reply that he wanted to be a musician. But the way she asked, the inflection in her voice, he questioned himself. _Why did he perform at the same club every night?_

He realized her eyes were still on him and she was expecting an answer from him. 

“I don’t know,” he laughed. “I guess I’m hoping someday someone will walk through those doors and discover me.”

She removed her hands from her pockets and crossed her arms over her chest instead. “So you’re waiting for someone to come find you, instead of chasing your dream?” She asked. 

Her eagerness about him was starting to drain from her face. Dmitry had seen that look before. People appreciated his music but didn’t understand his motivation.

“Look, it’s complicated,” he tried to shrug her off. “I wrote these songs to—“

“It’s not complicated!” She interjected. “You either chase your dream or you sit here and wait for something that may never come!”

He felt his own anger and stubbornness bubbling in his throat. He had tried. He really had. She didn’t know him, and she wouldn’t know anything about him based on a five-minute conversation. “Then I guess I’m sitting here,” he dismissed her. 

The woman clenched her jaw as she looked up at him. She was about a foot shorter than him, but her sharp glare made her seem twice his size. “Have you recorded your songs?”

Dmitry shrugged, “No.” He tucked his hands into his pocket sheepishly. 

She stared at him. There was something so unnerving about the way she looked at him—like she was disappointed in him, when she barely knew him. 

“I can hardly get a head turn in here, I doubt I could sell an album.”

“I would listen,” she replied pointedly. “If you recorded your songs I would listen.”

“Yeah?” He laughed. 

She nodded. 

He offered a smile as he picked up his guitar case. “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I’d have to get someone to agree to letting me into a recording studio.”

He propped his guitar case up for a second and collected sheet music to take with him. 

She watched him as he flipped through and reordered his music and reached out and snatched a sheet from him. Her eyes scanned over his handwriting on the sheet. “Do you have a criminal record?” She asked. Her eyes flicked up at him. 

Dmitry laughed but her face was serious. His smile faded. “No,” he cleared his throat. 

“Then I think you should be able to get into a recording studio,” she replied as she looked back at the sheet. “There’s no reason to stop you from entering.”

“Someone would have to let me,” he suggested. 

She was quiet as she looked at him. He knew he was making excuses, and with her, excuses didn’t seem to go far. 

Her eyes scanned over the staffs of music and her head bobbed as if she was trying to follow along with the pattern of notes in her head. 

Dmitry cleared his throat, “I’ve never seen you around here before. What’s your name?”

“Anya,” she replied as she looked up at him. Her answer was firm, but the way she pursed her lips indicated maybe she had her doubts. 

“Anya,” he repeated. “I take it you’re Russian?”

“What’s it to you?” She replied as she watched him with a cautious gaze. 

He rounded her as he gathered his belongings. Dmitry smirked and shrugged, “Takes one to know one.” 

“You’re Russian?” She asked as she examined him. Her voice was almost impressed. 

“Having a name like Dmitry—it’s a tell-tale heart,” he laughed softly. “You don’t see many Russians around this part of the Village. They’re mostly out in Brooklyn.”

Anya cracked a smile as she rocked on her heels. “Well aren’t you lucky you found one in the Village, then?”

He offered a smile in return. 

“This is good,” she interjected as she handed him his sheet music back.

He took the sheet and tucked it with the rest of his music. “Thanks,” he replied softly. 

She nodded in return. 

Dmitry looked at her. “So what part is your family from?”

There was a knot in his throat. He often felt a kinship to any Russian he met in the city. 

Anya pursed her lips and wrung her hands as her brow knit, “I don’t know.”

“Were you adopted?” Dmitry asked. The words came out of his mouth faster than he could stop them, and he instantly regretted it. He felt an immediate connection to her, forgetting that they were still strangers. 

“Yes,” Anya replied. “By a nurse when I was young.”

“Have you ever tried to trace back to find your birth family?” He asked as he swallowed hard.

Anya bit her lip. Her brow softened as she nodded. “I’ve tried here and there. It’s complicated.”

Dmitry smirked. “Is it complicated, or do you just not want to know the answer?”

Anya paused. She looked taken aback and tucked her hands into her pockets. “A little bit of both, probably. It’s like you want to feel like you belong to someone, but you’re afraid of who they might be.” 

Dmitry nodded. It seemed to be a sensitive subject to her. “Do you have any leads?” He asked. 

“I only have a journal that apparently belonged to my grandmother,” Anya replied. “My mom gave it to me when I was old enough, but it’s all written in Cyrillic and it’s been years since I’ve tried to read. She said she had received it when she adopted me.”

Dmitry’s brow knit as he thought. His fingers traced his jaw “I might know someone who can help you,” he replied.

“You do?”

“Yeah, the woman who lives below me speaks fluently. She could probably help you translate it.”

“Can you speak it?” Anya asked. There was a slight tremble in her voice and he immediately understood. 

His own greatest fear was losing his ties to his heritage and he couldn’t imagine not knowing where your family was once rooted. 

“I don’t as much as I used to, but I can get by,” he exhaled softly and shook his head. “My neighbor always tells me off and says I’d be able to bring a girl home if I could speak it better.” Dmitry smiled to himself. 

Anya smiled softly. “I can speak it because my mother—my adoptive mother—speaks it to me, but I can’t read it as well. I stopped reading it after I moved out, and it’s gotten harder as the years pass.”

Dmitry nodded with understanding. “As a boy I used to hate having to write it,” he smirked as he combed his fingers through his hair.

Anya laughed. “If you could help me, maybe I could help you with your album. I could play accompaniment to your songs.”

“What do you play?” He asked, his brow raised. 

“I learned piano when I was young.”

“You have a piano?” He smiled as he picked up his guitar and started out of the bar. She followed along. 

“No, I don’t own a piano, they're very expensive,” she replied. “But there’s a music store down the block from where I live, and the man who runs the shop lets me play there. I think it helps him figure out which pianos are out of tune.”

Dmitry smiled. Her personality was very direct, but he liked her. She was good at negotiating and seemed well-intentioned. 

“Do we have a deal?” She asked. “If you introduce me to your neighbor, I’ll play piano for you.”

Dmitry pursed his lips as he thought. She was charming. “How about you bring the journal tomorrow so I can introduce you to my neighbor, then you can play me some piano, and I’ll walk you home tonight?”

Her eyes lit up and she smiled. “Deal,” she replied and offered her hand. 

He shook it. 

As her hand slid out of his, he caught her eyes and her soft grin. The way she looked at him made his heart skip a beat in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. She walked along beside him as he carried his guitar, a slight skip in her step as he kept her company. 

She was like an unexpected gust of wind, forcing him to change the direction of his sails. 


End file.
